CHRIST OR ODIN?

You cannot well conceive a science, whether it be mathematics, or architecture, or philosophy, without its axioms, dogmas, or first principles. Without them there is no basis on which to raise the superstructure. So it is with the science of religion. Take Christianity: if it is to be taught scientifically, it must start with the most tremendous dogma, the Divinity of Christ. Either Christ was or He was not what He claimed to be. If He was not, you must shout with the Sanhedrim: "Crucify Him!" If He was, you must sing with the Church: "Come, adore Him." One thing is certain, you cannot be indifferent to His claim or to Him; you must either hate Him and His creed, like the Prussian warring Superman, or love Him and it, like England's Crusading Kings.

The cartoon before us is the finished picture which I can trace from its first rough sketch in the hands of Kant, through its different stages of development in the schools of Hegel, of Schopenhauer, of Strauss, till it was ready for its final touches in the hands of Nietzsche. In fancy I see it hung, on the line, in the Prussian picture-gallery under the direction of War Lords, whose boasted aim it is that the world shall be governed only by Prussian Kultur and Prussian Religion.

The fatal mistake made by the Teutonic race in the past was, we are told, the adoption of Roman culture and Roman religion. Germany once submitted to an alien G.o.d and to an alien creed. She, the mistress of the earth, the mightiest of the mighty, and the most Kultured of the Kultured, had actually once worshipped "an uncultured peasant Galilean,"

and made profession of "His slave morality."

Now they had altogether done with Christ, the Nazarene. The shout had gone forth: "We will not have this Man to rule over us." In the future no G.o.ds but Thor and Odin shall rule the "world-dominating race."

Prussia seemed to think the world's need to-day was the religion not of Virtue, but of Valour. "In a day now long fled was heard the cry: 'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth,' but to-day there shall go forth the word: 'Blessed are the valiant, for they shall make the earth their throne.' In the past ye heard it said: 'Blessed are the poor in spirit,' but now I say to you: 'Blessed are the great in soul, for they shall enter into Valhalla.' Again, in the dark ages it was said to you: 'Blessed are the peace-makers,' but now in the blaze of day I say unto you: 'Blessed are the war-makers, for they shall be called, if not the children of Jahve, the children of Odin, who is greater than Jahve.'" For those who want more of this mad jargon on the same lines let me refer them to the late Professor Cramb's book on Germany and England.

With this cartoon before me, I am driven to fear that when the war is done there will rise up in Germany a louder and stronger cry against the Christianity of Christ than ever was attempted after the Franco-Prussian War. The "man of blood and iron," the man with the mailed fist and the iron heel, I much apprehend, will not be satisfied with tearing down the emblem of the physical Body of Christ, but to slake his bloodthirsty spirit he will want to go on to belabour His Mystical Body no less. G.o.d avert it!

BERNARD VAUGHAN.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I crush whatever resists me."]

FERDINAND

In this war, where the ranks of the enemy present to us so many formidable, sinister, and shocking figures, there is one, and perhaps but one, which is purely ridiculous. If we had the heart to relieve our strained feelings by laughter, it would be at the gross Coburg traitor, with his bodyguard of a.s.sa.s.sins and his hidden coat-of-mail, his shaking hands and his painted face. The world has never seen a meaner scoundrel, and we may almost bring ourselves to pity the Kaiser, whom circ.u.mstances have forced to accept on equal terms a potentate so verminous.

But we no longer smile, we are tempted rather to weep, when we think of the nation over whom this Ferdinand exercises his disastrous authority.

Forty years will have expired this spring since the Christian peasants of Bulgaria rose in arms against the Turkish oppressor. After a year of wild mountain fighting, Russia, with fraternal devotion, came to their help, and at San Stefano in March, 1877, the aspirations of Bulgaria were satisfied under Russia auspices. Ten years later Ferdinand the usurper descended upon Sofia, shielded by the protection of Austria, and since then, under his poisonous rule, the honour and spirit of the once pa.s.sionate and romantic Bulgarian nation have faded like a plant in poison-fumes.

Raemaekers presents the odious Ferdinand to us in the act of starting for the wars--he who faints at the sight of a drawn sword. His hired a.s.sa.s.sins guard him from his own people and from the revenge of the thousands whom he has injured. But will they always be able to secure so vile a life against the vengeance of history? How soon will Fate condescend to crush this painted creature?

EDMUND GOSSE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Ferdinand s'en va t'en guerre ne salt s'il reviendra.

(Old French song adapted.)]

JUGGERNAUT

Yes, Kultur, the German Juggernaut, has pa.s.sed this way. There is no mistaking the foul track of his chariot-wheels. Kultur is the German G.o.d. But there is a greater G.o.d still. He sees it all. He speaks,--

"_Was it for this I died?_

--Black clouds of smoke that veil the sight of heaven; Black piles of stones which yesterday were homes; And raw black heaps which once were villages; Fair towns in ashes, spoiled to suage thy spleen; My temples desecrate, My priests out-cast:-- Black ruin everywhere, and red,--a land All swamped with blood, and savaged raw and bare; All sickened with the reek and stench of war, And flung a prey to pestilence and want; --Thy work!

"_For this?_-- --Life's fair white flower of manhood in the dust; Ten thousand thousand hearts made desolate; My troubled world a seething pit of hate; My helpless ones the victims of thy l.u.s.t;-- The broken maids lift hopeless eyes to Me, The little ones lift handless arms to Me, The tortured women lift white lips to Me, The eyes of murdered white-haired sires and dames Stare up at Me. And the sad anguished eyes Of My dumb beasts in agony.

--Thy work!"

JOHN OXENHAM.

[Ill.u.s.tration: KULTUR HAS Pa.s.sED HERE]

MICHAEL AND THE MARKS

"The Loan: good for 100 marks!" Look at him! He is the favoured of the Earth, lives in Germany, where Kultur is peerless, and education complete (even tho' the man may become a martyr of method). War comes!

and he is seen, as an almond tree in blossom his years tell, when lo! a War Loan is raised with real Helfferichian candour, and Michael has just stepped out of the Darlehnska.s.se, at Oberwesel-on-the-Rhine, or other seat of Kultur and War Loan finance. Are visions about? said an American humorist now gone to the Shades; and Michael, Loan note in hand, eyes reversed, after a visit to two or three offices, wants to know, and wonders whether this note can be regarded as "hab und gut," and if so, good for how much? Is it a wonder that an artist in a Neutral Country should depict German affairs as in this condition, and business done in this manner? Michael is puzzled; and in the language of the Old Kent Road, "'e dunno where 'e are!" He is puzzled, and not without cause.

All who have followed Germany's financing of the War share Michael's perplexity. Brag is a good dog: but it does not do as a foundation for credit. Gold at Spandau was trumpeted for years as a "war chest"; but when the "best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft agley," especially when a war does not end, as it should, after a jolly march to Paris in six weeks, through a violated and plundered Belgium, then comes the rub--and the paper which puzzles Michael. A German, possibly Dr.

Helfferich, the German Finance Minister, may believe, and some do believe, that it does not matter how much "paper," in currency notes, a State, or even a Bank, may issue. The more experienced commercial and banking concerns of the world insist upon a visible material, as well as the personal security, to which the German is p.r.o.ne. The round-about method of issuing German War Loans unquestionably puzzles Michael; but will not impose on the world outside.

Let it be marked also, that German credit methods have been, in part, the proximate cause of this War; a system of credit-trading may last for some years only to threaten disaster and general ruin. Now, it is "neck or nothing"; Michael goes the round of the Loan offices, and behold him!

Germany herself fears a crash in credit, and even the German Michael feels that it is impending. Already the mark exchanges over 30 below par.

W. M. J. WILLIAMS.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LOAN JUGGLERY

MICHAEL: "For my 100 marks I obtained a receipt. I gave this for a second 100 marks and I received a second receipt. For the third loan I gave the second receipt. Have I invested 300 marks and has the Government got 300, or have both of us got nothing?"]

THEIR BERESINA

_"Is it still a long way to the Beresina?"_

The whole civilized world sincerely hopes not.

Death, with the grin on his fleshless face, is hurrying them along to it as fast as his troika can go. Three black horses abreast he drives--Dishonour, Disappointment, and Disgrace--and the more audacious of the carrion-crows fly croaking ominously alongside.

Little Willie, with the insignia of his family's doom on his head, is not happy in his mind. "Father's" plans have not worked smoothly, his promises have not been fulfilled. Little Willie is concerned for his own future. He is the only soul in the world who is.

When the First--the real--Napoleon entered Russia, on June 24, 1812, he led an army of 414,000 men--the grande armee. When the great retreat began from burnt-out Moscow he had less than 100,000. By the time the Beresina was reached but little of the grand army was left. "Of the cavalry reserve, formerly 32,000 men, only 100 answered the muster-roll." The pa.s.sage of the river, which was to interpose its barrier between him and the pursuing Russians, was an inferno of panic, selfishness, and utter demoralization. Finally, to secure his own safety, Napoleon had the bridges burnt before half his men had crossed.

The roll-call that night totalled 8,000 gaunt spectres, hardly to be called men.

_"Father, is it still a long way to the Beresina?"_

We may surely and rightly put up that question as a prayer to the G.o.d whom Kaiser William claims as friend, but whom he has flouted and bruised as never mortal man since time began has bruised and flouted friend before.

_"Is it still a long way to the Beresina?"_

G.o.d grant them a short quick course, an end forever to militarism, to the wastage it has entailed, and to all those evils which have made such things possible in this year of grace 1916.

JOHN OXENHAM.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Father, is it still a long way to the Beresina?"]